


Honey That Burns

by LindsayIsTheCraic



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Strangers to Lovers, and the chaotic duo of bakers indra and raven, musician abby, writer marcus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23179645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LindsayIsTheCraic/pseuds/LindsayIsTheCraic
Summary: Marcus is a regular at Arkadia Café; it’s his favorite place to write. The smell of coffee, the taste of his favorite blueberry scone, and the soothing live music creates the perfect work environment. But when the newest addition to the live music’s line up distracts him more than helps him zone into his work, he has no other choice than to make her the focus of his art until she’s just background music. The issue? The more he writes about her, the more curious he gets, the better his work becomes, and the more he falls in love with her voice.
Relationships: Abby Griffin & Marcus Kane, Abby Griffin/Marcus Kane
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	Honey That Burns

**Author's Note:**

> ya girl is back with another au !!!!!
> 
> I really enjoyed this style of writing--I hope you do too!
> 
> This work was inspired by the song "She" by Harry Styles from the album "Fine Line". 
> 
> As always, enjoy !!!
> 
> All the love,  
> Lindsay :)
> 
> PS- This is my official first written piece of 2020 and the new decade !!! Let me know how I do !!!

“The regular?”

“Yes, please.”

Marcus handed over the exact change for his order, and Indra placed it in the register without checking. Ripping off the receipt, she smacked it on a coffee cup and handed it over to Raven to fulfill. Marcus stepped off to the side so the next person could order but not before asking her, “You never count my change, how do you know I’m not cheating you out of a couple cents?”

Without straying from punching in the next order, Indra said, “I’ve memorized how heavy it feels in my hand.” She slapped the next receipt on the next cup as she passed it off to another worker. She glanced over to him, saying, “I’d know the moment you short-changed me a penny.”

“And then we’d have to take your journal as compensation,” Raven added in as she placed his coffee in front of him. She reached into the pastry display and pulled out a blueberry scone, placing it in a small bag before setting it next to his coffee.

Marcus grabbed his order and shifted his bag away from her, where his beloved journal was stashed away. He asked, “Is that all my work is worth to you? A penny?”

Raven was grabbing another pastry for another costumer and replied, “Write a story about me and I may give you higher than a three-star rating on Goodreads.”

Indra laughed and smacked another receipt on a cup, adding on, “Dedicate one of your books to this place and I won’t sell it on Ebay.”

Raven laughed as she scooped up the next cup, going to the coffee machine. Marcus took a sip of his drink as he shook his head. As he walked away, he said, “You both will be the antagonists if you keep it up.” He heard their laughter ring out after him as he approached his usual table.

The usual table was a high table that sat in the back corner, far enough from the register to make the noise and chatter background noise but close enough if he needed a refill. The table had two tall chairs and he always sat in the one placed right in the corner and used the other to throw his bag on. When he sits down in the chair, he has the whole café in his view, including the sidewalk and busy streets to his left. The sun never glares in his eyes in this spot but it casts a beautiful, soft glow when it sets, creating the perfect atmosphere for when he writes the softer side of his pieces.

To his right, there are more tables that wrap around the counter and work area. More towards the back of the extra tables, there’s an open lounge area with a small stage for the live music that comes in after the morning rush. It usually consists of a couple different people with an acoustic guitar and an occasional keyboard. The relaxing acoustic beat and soothing vocals helps Marcus zone into his work for hours, more than any playlist he could create in his music library.

As Marcus pulled out his laptop and journal, he saw it was almost eleven in the morning, indicating the first performer would be setting up soon. He powered on the computer and opened his journal to the last page he wrote in. The journal is used for any short or new ideas that pop into his mind, including one liners he hears and wants to incorporate into his work. Anything he finds intriguing and wants to expand on, he quickly writes it down and references back to it.

The laptop is where all the real work gets done. From too many word documents filled to the brim with plots of all the stories he wants to eventually write to the edited files in his email from his editor and publishers about what he needs to fix. The files he has open now are for a collaboration he has agreed to for the anniversary of his publishing company. It’s a mini book that will contain short stories and poems from a variety of authors also within the company focused on the central theme around love.

He’s been struggling for a while now to select a topic, and he’s been shooting ideas back and forth between his publishers. They tell him he should write about two people falling in love after seeing in each other in public randomly all the time. They’ve never talked or even acknowledged themselves to the other, but when they recognize each other everywhere, they start to pay attention to every detail. Slowly, over time, they begin to find each other attractive, they begin to notice specific ticks the other has, they find certain behaviors of the other funny, and in due time, they find themselves in love with a stranger. In the end, neither has the courage to approach the other, but instead, they become unspoken lovers from afar.

Marcus isn’t against the idea, he thinks the base of the idea is actually genius. It’s the ending he doesn’t like. All the buildup of showing how they fell in love with each other, only for it to fall flat with no climax. If they don’t ever interact, what’s the point of the story? It was like baking a cake and then refusing to let anyone eat it.

That’s why he was stuck on the first page still. He didn’t have the motivation to write a story with no happy ending or true climax. He didn’t want to waste his time and mind on such a piece. He hoped the café could bring some inspiration or a different ending that he will be satisfied with.

+

12:54 PM.

Marcus still hadn’t progressed past the first page. He did, however, manage to create more plot points he wanted to include. In his journal, he had written down some one-liners he overheard from one couple that was discussing the park nearby. His favorite from the few he had written down was, “The child on the swings? He reminded me of you when I first saw you on our elementary school playground.”

The line shifted his whole view on the plot he was struggling with. He thought about how he was so focused on two adults falling in love, he forgot that some love starts earlier than some can comprehend what it actually means.

It sent his mind onto the track of starting the story out with kids who see each other only at recess due to being in separate classrooms. They notice the other in different parts of the playground every day: being impressed with how they can get across all the monkey bars, how they’re always in the top square for four square, and how they’re not afraid of swinging so high on the swings. It’s the activities adults don’t put much thought into that kids idolize and fall in love with. Marcus could start his story—

Marcus’ fingers froze across the keyboard. That _voice_ —it wasn’t one Marcus recognized.

Quickly looking to his right, he saw a stranger on the live music stage. He definitely did not recognize her. The way her light brown hair fell down on and past her shoulders against her black turtleneck; the way her fingers plucked and strummed at the guitar strings and created an enticing melody. But none of that was what had Marcus frozen over his keyboard—it was her voice.

Marcus had heard some very talented singers at Arkadia Café. Hell, the café had a bunch of reality show hopefuls and rejects, so they were all extremely talented. But her voice didn’t stick out solely because it was new, it stood out because it was smooth with a hidden roughness that many tried to recreate but failed to. It was like honey but with a burn. It seemed natural to her, effortless.

And he _loved_ it.

He shifted in his seat to get a better view of the stage, his work at the back of his mind. He let his mind focus on her, on how she lost herself in the music. Her eyes were closed as she started strumming a bit faster, and he saw the concentration furrowed at her forehead. Marcus about gasped when she let out the next few notes.

He wasn’t sure if the voice crack was intentional or not, he knew it wasn’t a part of the actual song, but it fit so perfectly—it sounded better than the original. The emotion she conveyed in those few broken syllables was more than any artist would hope to in a three-minute song. They went straight into his heart and released emotions he couldn’t describe.

And when she opened her eyes and made eye contact with him as she sung the next note, they increased tenfold. Foreign to them, Marcus did what he knew best: grabbed his journal and began jotting it all down.

+

Two pages. Two. Whole. Pages.

Marcus had filled two whole pages about the new musician.

Two pages in a hand-held, leather journal may not seem like a lot, but when he’s used to only writing a few sentences on things that capture his attention, two pages was _a lot_.

He started off by listing the notes she was singing, labeling each in detail so he remembered them vividly and proceeded to describe the emotions he felt after hearing each. Once he completed that, he focused on her maneuvers on the stage. From the way she sat, to the way she strummed her guitar, to how close she was to the microphone, and to how she held her stage presence—he wrote it all down.

The last thing he focused on was solely her voice. He wrote his first initial reaction to it, how it caught him so off guard. He elaborated on how it was warm but just hot enough to burn. He described how the burn lingered and wouldn’t subside not matter what remedy he tried. He vented on how much he loved it and how he wanted more.

2:37 PM.

Marcus had spent an hour and more captivated by this stranger. Instead of working on his actual project, he had immersed himself in her performance. When she would take small breaks in between songs to adjust, he would quickly write down the thoughts swirling in his mind. He wanted to capture them while the burn was still fresh. Just as it would cool down, she would strum the first note of the next song and the scorch would return.

When her performance had finished, he had turned all his attention to his journal, filling in the blanks with details he was fixated on and wanted to be sure to express fully. After he was finished, hand slightly cramping from the pace of not wanting to leave anything out, she was gone. The stage was accompanied by someone else and Marcus hadn’t even realized they were already performing their set.

A little baffled at how zoned-out he had gotten, he regretfully glanced as his laptop.

Zero progress. Not even a page.

He glanced at the journal beneath his fountain pen. The two pages filled to the brim filled with details about the new musician stared back at him. Guilt flooded him and he slammed the journal shut before throwing it in his bag. Deciding he needed a refill on coffee to refocus, he went back to the counter.

When it was his turn in line, Indra already punched it in and had her hand out for the money. Giving it to her, he asked, “Was that a new regular for the music?”

Indra looked up to him as she handed Raven his coffee cup. She explained, “No, she filled in for Jaha. He was too sick to perform and Raven said she knew someone who could fill in.”

Marcus was both relieved and disappointed. That meant she wouldn’t be back, which presented two outcomes: he would be able to focus on his work and he would never get to hear her voice again. He couldn’t escape the guilty thought of doubting if the former was worth losing the latter.

“Wasn’t she really good?”

Marcus redirected his attention to Raven who had placed his coffee in front of him. While she got his pastry out, his mind drifted to his notes and echoed them without much thought, “Like honey that burns…”

“What was that?”

Marcus snapped back to reality as Raven held out his pastry to him. Embarrassed, he grabbed his order quickly. “I said she was extremely good.”

“Uh-huh,” Indra responded, smacking another receipt on a cup.

Afraid the steam from his coffee wasn’t excuse enough for producing the pink tint on his cheeks, he settled for not commenting and going back to his work station. Sitting down, he glanced once at the stage, half expecting her to be back on it. When he was looking at the same regular from before, he sighed but couldn’t tell if it was of relief or disappointment.

For the sake of his work, he tried to convince himself it was of relief.

+

To be blunt, Marcus didn’t get shit done yesterday.

He could not find a way to refocus on the story he was already struggling to write. His mind kept wandering back to the mysterious musician and her voice. When he thought he finally got her out of his system, her voice would seep its way into his brain, recapturing his interest.

He couldn’t help it. Every time her music replayed in his mind, he found a new thing to fixate on. And when that happened, he couldn’t focus on anything else until he extinguished all the possible ways to write about it in his journal.

In other words, instead of getting at least one page done on his story, he added another page in his journal about her. He told himself as he went home yesterday that it was a productive day; he told himself that he could use some of it in his story. He repeated that to himself as he sent the newest, yet barely changed, version of his story to his publisher and editor for feedback.

He was kidding himself.

When he woke to a disappointed email from his publisher, he forced himself to make the commitment to reach two full pages of the actual story and another page full of possible plot points. He was going to make today productive.

So, as he sat at the usual table, he made the tough decision to keep his journal in his bag. He would have to rely on his memories of the pages of one-liners and possible plot points if he wanted to expand off them. He knew the moment he opened that journal, he would drown in her voice all over again.

He had gotten to the café extra early today so he could have extra time to make up for his slack. It helped she wouldn’t be at Arkadia Café today. Knowing Jaha would be back and singing his country set list, Marcus knew he could block the world out and zone in on his work. Taking a bite of his blueberry scone, Marcus got away to typing.

+

“That ending sucks.”

Leave it to Raven to be honest.

Marcus picked up his newest coffee and sipped it, nodding in agreement. “I know,” he said, “that’s why it’s so hard find any motivation to write it.”

She was busy adding whipped cream to a hot chocolate order and asked, “Did you tell them the ending sucked?”

And she could be a bit naïve.

He smiled slightly, telling her, “If I said that, I wouldn’t have a contract anymore.”

“ _Oh no_ ,” Raven mocked, “best-selling author Marcus Kane won’t have a contract? How will he ever publish a book again?” Marcus heard Indra snicker in the background as he rolled his eyes. Raven gave him pointed look before saying, “I couldn’t think of any company that would want him under their name!”

He promptly ignored her as she smacked a lid on the order. She said, “This is for our next performer, I’ll be right back to give you another scone.” As she walked off, Marcus took a drink of his coffee. Jaha had just finished up his set a bit ago, so Marcus presumed the next performer was setting up.

Much to Marcus’ liking, he had gotten one page written for the story. However, he wasn’t lying when he said he was struggling to still find motivation to write it. It took him a few hours to write the page, and that included rewriting the beginning a couple times and erasing multiple lines that just didn’t fit. It was extremely frustrating. Marcus hadn’t experienced this level of writer’s block since his sequel to his first successful novel.

Raven finally made her way back and was collecting his scone from the pastry display as he rose his cup to his lips. That’s when he heard it. Freezing in his movements, his eyes blurred out of focus as all his attention went to his hearing.

There was no mistaking it. It was _her_.

Snapping out of it as Raven dropped the bag with his pastry in it on the counter, he averted his attention to where the stage would be wrapped around the work station. Raven followed his intense gaze and then back to him, asking, “What?”

He looked to her and then to Indra, who was also watching his reaction as she took the next order. Ignoring Raven, he told Indra, “You said she was only replacing Jaha since he was sick!”

Raising an eyebrow, she ripped the receipt off. Smacking it on a cup, she replied, “I did say that.”

Not amused, Marcus narrowed his eyebrows as Indra handed Raven the cup. He got closer to the register as the customer walked away back to their table. He half-whispered as if it was a sin, “Then what is she doing back here?”

Indra was certainly amused at his frustration because she smiled in response. She began writing on an order slip while saying, “Because we got great feedback and people wanted her back.”

Of course they did, Marcus couldn’t blame them. The way she was singing right now, there was no way he wouldn’t want her to return tomorrow either. Having not received a response, Indra asked, “Is that an issue? You _were_ one of those who said she was great.”

_But I didn’t want her to return!_

Or maybe he did.

Okay, he knew he wanted her to return, but that was because he was selfish. He wanted to hear her voice for hours on end, but his work was his priority, and his work didn’t want her back. It _needed_ her to never come back.

Snatching up his pastry, he shook his head, saying, “No, I think it’s great she’ll be a regular.” Without waiting for a response, he walked back over to his table. His response had been both a truth and lie, but he’d force himself to believe it was all a lie for the sake of his work.

Once he was repositioned in front of his laptop, he snuck a glance at the stage. It was a mistake.

He was immediately wrapped up in her stage presence. Her voice was like a siren calling out, eventually trapping him when he answered. It was rougher today but he had no complaints. He began to think he liked it better this way.

While he swam in her voice, he checked out her outfit for today. Her hair was wavy at the ends, framing her face elegantly. She was also wearing black rimmed glasses that fit in perfectly with her black sweater. It was covered in small, silver specks and they glittered under the spotlight.

His eyes continued to wander across the stage and they landed on a bag tucked away behind a few chairs. Leaning forward a bit to get a better look, he thought he saw a white lab coat laying on top. This peaked his interest as he looked back to her as she began tapping her foot to the bridge of the song. What was the lab coat for? Her day job? What was her day job?

He wanted to know the answers, he wanted to know it all.

Refocusing on her, he let his mind wander on the possibilities as he let her voice guide him. Was she a doctor? If so, what kind of doctor? Or, was she some kind of science teacher? Did she get along well with children?

So many were on his tongue but evaporated away every time he heard her sing each note. He didn’t want to interrupt her singing, he didn’t want it to stop. Stopping it would cause the warmth he felt to cool, and he didn’t want that. He wanted to burn forever.

As she wrapped up the song, he watched as she readjusted her position on stage. She also bent over and picked up the hot chocolate from before and took a long sip of it. Intrigued, Marcus flickered his eyes over to his bag where his journal was banned to.

As she began strumming the guitar for the next song, his right hand began to twitch. Biting his lip to restrain himself, he forced his eyes to the laptop. As he stared at the page, all the motivation he had miraculously drug out of him before to write was nowhere to be found. All he could focus on was the way her voice had sweetened out from the song before.

Shaking his head a bit, he forced himself to start typing. Anything, he just needed to get the words flowing to get started.

After a few failed attempts, he ran his hand through his beard as he let out a loud sigh. Daring a glance at the stage, he found her eyes trained on where he sat. Freezing up slightly, he held the eye contact, afraid any movement would silence her.

They held eye contact for a few seconds, but it felt like years. When she closed her eyes, she let out a long, impressive note that made Marcus’ mind up for him. Without a second thought, he ripped his bag open and pulled his journal out, opening to where he left off about her.

+

Too many blueberry scones later and Marcus hadn’t progressed past the point he had gotten to before that musician had begun her set.

In the beginning, it was a productive day, but when she left after her set, he didn’t touch the story for the rest of the night. His mind was too wrapped up on her and her voice.

To make matters worse, he had sent the newest draft to his publishers and they were not too big on it. That feedback was not what Marcus needed but it was what he deserved. He knew he wasn’t giving his all for this piece, but he couldn’t help it.

Her voice was truly like honey. Once you consumed it, you tasted it forever after. Not to mention the memories of it that are burned in his mind. Branded on his brain, they replayed nonstop after reigniting once hearing her voice again. The burn was worth it, but it was also leaving a path of destruction in its wake.

As he left Arkadia Café, he made the tough decision to not return to the café until he finished his work. This way, he could focus solely on his work and put all his effort into creating a good piece. This way, he could have no distractions. This way, he could forget about the musician that had a voice that was like honey that burns.

+

“That’s what you get for being a traitor.”

Marcus deserved that. He wasn’t going to fight Indra on that.

“Maybe,” Raven pipped in, “if you include me—”

“Or the café.”

“—in your story, then all can be forgiven.”

Marcus looked at the two as he picked his regular order off the counter. He asked, “Wasn’t it consequence enough that I had to eat the Wallace’s scones? If you could even call them that.”

Indra smacked a receipt on the next cup, handing it over her shoulder to Raven. “That was voluntary,” Indra said.

Again, she wasn’t wrong.

Marcus had spent a week away from Arkadia Café in hopes a new change of scenery would give him the inspiration he was looking for. He tried writing at home for the first few days to no luck. He got extremely distracted by his cat, Blake, every time he laid on Marcus’ laptop.

After that, he tried going to the Wallace Family Bakery that was on the opposite side of town to Arkadia Café. The two businesses were established rivals and Marcus felt dirty the moment he walked in. He also had no luck there since it was more a rowdy space as high schoolers tend to hang out there as it is located across Arkadia High School. Not to mention the scones are absolutely disgusting compared to the ones Indra makes. He was currently going through withdrawal.

To say the least, he didn’t get any productive work done. It showed when communicating with his publisher throughout the week. He couldn’t improve on the story he had currently written halfway through the week and finally admitted to his publisher the ending he was looking for was something he didn’t want to write.

Through more collaborating, the two settled on letting Marcus have the rest of the week to compile a few ideas of his own with a short example of each for his publisher to choose from. Once his publisher chose the topic, Marcus had free range of writing it however he wanted. While that part of the break had been successful, Marcus found himself back at square one. He still didn’t have an idea he wanted to write about and today was the deadline to send one in.

Smiling sadly at Indra, Marcus said, “If it makes up for it, the kids only go there for convenience after school. I saw most of them pulling out scones and other pastries of yours to eat there.”

Indra didn’t respond at first as she punched an order into the register. Once the receipt was printed, she ripped it off and smacked it on a cup. She smirked a bit as she handed it to Raven over her shoulder. She answered, “I know. Raven takes orders at school and brings them the next day.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow at that, looking to Raven. She was busy mixing ingredients for the order as she offered him an innocent smile. As he looked back to Indra, she added on, “If Cage Wallace thinks he can get away with trash talking my business on the daily, he’s mistaken. I have no problem advertising in his store.”

He laughed at that. He turned to go to his usual table, saying, “That may have earned the café a shout out in my next story.”

“Hey!” Raven whined from the mixer. “I help! Where’s my shout out?”

Marcus took a sip of his drink, telling her, “I’ll think about it.”

Her mouth dropped as Indra laughed and took the next order. He walked over to his usual table and sat in the usual placement. Setting up his work station like he used to, he already felt better. It felt right. He did, however, notice he wasn’t fully satisfied. As his eyes drifted to the stage where the live music would start up soon, he knew what he was missing.

He wasn’t going to admit it for his work’s sake.

+

Why is it that inspiration and ideas come to creative minds in the most inappropriate times but never when they need them? Marcus has heard before that forced art wasn’t true art, but he was desperate. It had been a few hours since he first sat down and he still hadn’t come up with a good idea.

There was no excuse either.

His usual distraction wasn’t present and he had enough blueberry scones to make up for the shit ones he had at Wallace Family Bakery. So, why couldn’t he produce a simple idea to build off?

He combed through his journal, searching for any bit that would spark an idea. But nothing stood out or peaked his interest. He tried looking through planned plots he had already made on his laptop, trying to see if he could simplify one into a short story. It was to no avail.

Rubbing his face in his hands, he sighed frustrated as he rested his face in hands for a moment. Closing his eyes as well, he tried to create an image in his mind. He came up blank, the ones that did form not lasting long enough to leave an impact.

But that’s when he heard something interesting.

It was familiar but not in the way he remembered. It still had its rough edge that he loved but it was softer. Instead of warming him, it calmed him. Even though the usual warmth he received from it was calming, it was a different kind. While he melted in the other, he felt at peace and constant.

Lifting his hands from his face, he looked to where the voice was coming from. It was by the counter and it was currently interacting with Indra. The laughter that followed it rung in his ears and fluttered his heart. Before she turned around, he recognized it was _her_.

He watched, intrigued, as Raven handed her a cup like one he saw her drinking out of a week ago. Interesting enough, she was wearing her white lab coat that he had spotted behind the stage. He also noticed she had on scrubs beneath it, affirming his thoughts she probably worked in a hospital.

In her other hand, she had a guitar case. On her back, she had the bag he had spotted. Referencing back to what he had seen, he guessed her change of clothes were in there and she came straight from work to perform. Did she work the early morning shift? Was it her lunch break?

Again, he wanted to know. He wanted to know her.

As she began to turn around and make her way to the stage to set up, he averted his eyes to his laptop. Dread filled him as the realization dawned on him that he was not going to get any work done. Annoyance filled him as he stared at the blank document.

He was a goddamn best-selling author. Why couldn’t he come up with a simple story idea? Hell, he could usually just listen to a couple songs and come up with an idea in five minutes for a small warm-up writing session, but he felt that would be pointless. He could usually hear someone say one interesting thing and plan a three-book series off it. _Why_ was it so hard?

As he stirred in self-doubt, he heard the first notes of the musician’s set begin, adding to the mix. Running his hands over his face and through his hair, he closed his eyes again. Instead of being caught off guard and falling trap to her voice, he waited for it.

When she started singing again, he felt himself falling again. He had no problem with it, he loved the feeling, but he tried to control it more. He struggled as he heard her voice go a little deeper than usual, something he had not heard yet. And, oh _God_ , was it beautiful.

Forget being burned, he was scorched. The crawl her voice left over his skin tried to cool him down but he felt the sizzle explode down his back after each word she sang. The trail it left behind lingered for what he hoped would last forever and he arched his back into it.

Why did he ever try escaping this? How could ever fathom trying to?

If he thought he went through a scone withdrawal, he went without a life source when missing her voice for a week. It was addictive; it was a necessity. He didn’t think he could ever function without it.

Which was ironic, since it was the same reason he couldn’t function. Her voice, that lovely voice, was the reason he was struggling to concentrate. It was the only thing on his mind. He couldn’t get it to play in the background like it was supposed to. It was at the forefront of his mind, like his stories used to be when he came here.

He paused for a moment at that last thought.

When he first heard her voice, he immediately went to writing about it. He didn’t want to miss a single detail, he wanted to remember every bit. After some time, his hand had grown tired and he was written out for the day. That happened again the following day.

While he hadn’t been productive for his goal, he had written quite a lot throughout both days on her voice. In that sense, his writing was productive. And although she stayed on his mind, she had drifted to the back of his mind as his frustration of spending all his time writing about her voice rather than his work took over his conscious.

That’s when it clicked.

Opening his journal to the first page he began writing about her on, he started at the top with the first thing he wrote down: “Honey that burns”. Without second guessing his motive now, he began typing away on his computer.

She had become the center of his attention, the center of his work without him realizing it. If he wanted to be able to work properly in this new environment, he would have to force her voice to become background music. And to do that, he would focus his work on her and her voice. By writing endlessly about them, they would eventually fade into the background.

Musicians wrote from personal experience all the time, why couldn’t he?

+

Like everything that has happened since she began singing at the Arkadia Café, Marcus’ idea of writing about her and her voice was both brilliant and the worst idea he had ever had.

Marcus had typed about two pages worth of material to send to his publisher. What he had written was quality, detailed, and something he found himself wanting to expand further and further on. Amazingly, he had barely used any notes from his journal. He was able to elaborate greatly off just a few and twist it into his style of writing.

Even better, his publisher had replied back that the story idea was brilliant and that he loved the excerpt Marcus had sent him. Approving it came with one condition: the publisher still wanted Marcus to try and give him the ending they first proposed but combined with Marcus’ want of them somehow interacting at least once.

It killed Marcus’ vibe slightly but he was happy he was given the green light to write about the mystery musician and the regular coffee goer who falls in love with her from afar. By being able to write about it, he would be able to relish in her voice and lower its volume at the same time.

Thinking of her, she was currently in between songs in the middle of her set. She was tuning her guitar, and as Marcus watched her turn the knobs a certain number of times, he knew what song she was performing next. He also knew so by the way she crossed her ankles instead of keeping them flat on the stage. It was further confirmed when she pulled the microphone close to her lips. Marcus smiled to himself successfully when the ballad began rolling off her tongue.

Marcus had paid so much attention to her detail for his story, he had begun to recognize her stage mannerisms immediately. For ballads, she would close herself a bit, drawing everything in her vicinity closer to her. For happier songs, she would always tap her foot to the bridge of the song. He could even tell just from the way her nose scrunched if her voice was going to bring out its roughness to its fullest potential or not—that was his favorite.

These details have filled out another page in his journal, totaling four of her in over just three days of observation (and long nights of dwindling on them in his head before bed). It was the most he had written on anyone or anything in his journal. The next longest section of the book dedicated one specific thing was only half a page—it was about Indra’s infamous argument with Cage Wallace that ended with coffee creamer down his trousers.

No matter that Marcus had four pages filled with details about her, it still wasn’t enough. There were still so many questions he wanted answered, there were more quirks he wanted to figure out. And of course, he wanted to hear her voice more.

The ballad she was performing now was one of his favorites on her set list. Obviously, he loved every song she sang, but there was something about this specific one that never failed to make him stop writing and pay attention to her solely. Looking to his right from his usual seat, he watched as the soft glow of the sun fanned across her.

She had a later set than her previous ones, starting around four in the afternoon. At this time, the sun was at the perfect angle to be its own spotlight for the stage. The natural light it emitted did nothing but heighten her natural glow, adding to the beauty her voice sung out. Feeling her voice along with the sun hitting his left cheek amplified the usual warmth he received from the performance.

Closing his eyes, he let himself get lost in her voice and its warmth. Nothing had ever made Marcus feel like this before. He tried many times at night to relate the experience back to memories but none could equate to what he was feeling now. He thought it was like being on cloud nine but during sunset. The afterglow of the sun in the sky hitting just perfect and taking your breath away was the closest he could get to a comparison. 

As she finished the song, Marcus let his eyes stay closed to preserve the moment as long as he could. He never knew when (or if) he’ll get another chance to return to that haven. He let the last drips of her voice slide their way off him and he soaks in the trail they leave behind. Before he knows it, the rustle of Arkadia Café returns and drags him back to reality.

+

“Stupid sun,” Marcus grumbled to himself as he tried adjusting the screen of his laptop to get rid of the glare. After many failed attempts, he sighed in defeat and leaves it as he readjusts his eyes to the stage now in front of him rather than to his right.

Instead of his usual seat at his usual table, he switched spots with his bag, now sitting to face the stage rather than parallel to it. He had to switch from his usual seat because over the past week, he was still getting distracted by that musician’s voice. While it gave him more to write about, he found himself daydreaming it more than writing about it. When he heard it, he only wanted to set his chin in his hand and watch her perform. He didn’t want to do anything that would take his attention away from her.

To try and continue his project while she played in the background, he was trying out the new spot to keep her in his vision at all times. He was hoping it would eliminate his need to actively turn his head to look at the stage every time he heard her voice.

So far, it was failing.

His eyes kept flickering above his computer to catch glimpses at her as she sang. It was extremely hard to not look today as she wore a bright yellow blouse that flowed in the wind from the heater above her. It reminded him of auras and he had compared it to an angel’s in his journal and in his latest draft of his work.

He was letting it slide that he was glancing so often at her since he was waiting for a response from his publisher on his latest draft. He was getting close to the end now, and he just needed to figure out how the hell he was going to give them the ending they wanted without a struggle. He let the worry leave as her voice swept it away as it carried out a long, ending note to a song.

When she strummed the last note to the song, he saw her check the clock on the wall. His eyes followed and saw it was nearing the end of her set. She would have time for one more song and Marcus felt his heart dropping at the thought of her set ending. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t tried searching for her online anywhere so he could listen to her voice on repeat, only to come up blank.

The biggest roadblock in searching her up was the fact he didn’t know her name. There was the easy solution to solving that by asking Raven, or even Indra, since they knew her, but Marcus liked the sentiment that he didn’t know her name. It added to her allure.

Like he always did when she was in between songs, he tried following her mannerisms to see what song she was going to perform next. He noticed her feet were separated and flat on the stage but her right was bouncing slightly. Her guitar was held closer than he usually saw with ballads and her fingers were moving up and down the strings as if they couldn’t find a place to rest. He couldn’t easily assume what song was next but he figured it was a ballad based on the guitar position with maybe more of an upbeat tempo or lyrics based on her feet.

When she first started playing the song, he didn’t recognize it. The notes weren’t a melody he had heard before, but it was definitely a faster ballad. He watched her closely, waiting for her to sing the lyrics. When she sang the first lyric, he didn’t recognize them either. This immediately captured his full attention, completely missing the ping of the email notification from his publisher.

It was a song he had never heard before, that was for sure, but the way his heart was responding made it seem like it was a song he had known his whole life. The music coming from the guitar played like a movie. It sped up in certain parts and slowed in some for a dramatic effect. There was even a part she stopped playing completely and just sang softly before roughly striking the chords back into the chorus.

Besides the music being genius, the lyrics were a masterpiece. It was a wonder that he had never heard it before. The flow from lyric to lyric was extremely smooth, even when the words didn’t seem they would match. The meaning behind the lyrics also played into the movie effect. They told the story of someone losing everything and being at rock bottom. Somehow, someone or something comes along and suddenly they feel hope and decide to not give up, even if they are beaten back down over time.

His absolute favorite part? The way her voice turns rough over every lyric that represents being shoved back down. He felt the shove through her voice, he felt the floor beneath his feet as the air left his lungs. When the music stopped at the bridge and her voice crackled softly, he felt his body struggling to stand back up before standing up and forcing himself past the hardship when she struck the chords violently. As the song came to a close, the roughness was absent and her voice was nothing but a light beam, offering a light in the dark.

As she guided her guitar out of the song, Marcus found himself unable to draw his eyes away from her. Yes, he had been enraptured by her voice ever since he heard it. Yes, he always found himself averting his gaze to her whenever she was on stage. But he had never felt that much emotion from one of her songs and performance before. It had always been her voice that pulled him away from his work but there was something about that song, her performance, _and_ her voice that amazed him beyond belief.

Sucking in a breath when he saw she had made eye contact with him, she seemed to be looking for a reaction. Why would she care what he thought about it? She had to know what a masterpiece that whole performance was, but he hoped his lack of an overt expression conveyed it enough because he was still in such disbelief.

When she looked away, he felt like he was let out of a trance. He shook his head a little and blinked a couple times to refocus. Luckily for him, the glare on his laptop hit him directly in the eyes when he moved slightly, completely shattering the state he was in. Covering and rubbing his sore eyes, he looked at his laptop to see the email from his publisher.

Blinking rapidly, he opened it and read it. A grin found its way onto his face when he saw his publisher loved it and told him it’s time to wrap it up for the ending. While he could worry about how to finish it later, he was relieved and overjoyed to know his publisher enjoyed it. His publisher even commented on a few lines and how it seemed his writing had significantly improved. Going back through the comments, Marcus saw how they were are related directly back to quotes from his journal.

Marcus also saw that the publisher said they needed a title for the short story. He had been so worried about the actual story, Marcus had forgotten to even think of a name for it. Frowning a bit at that, he mentally added that to his list of worries to tackle. But overall, his work was coming out perfect. And he had that mysterious musician to thank that for. If it wasn’t for her voice, he wouldn’t have created such a piece of art.

Looking up to see her on stage, he was surprised instead to find Raven in front of him with a coffee and a small baggie. She set it on the table in front of him and he raised an eyebrow in questioning. Looking up to her, he asked, “What’s this?”

“The regular.”

Even more confused, Marcus grabbed both. He immediately recognized the smell of his usual coffee and set it off to the side. Opening the small baggie, he found a blueberry scone inside. Still baffled, Marcus looked back to Raven, saying, “I didn’t order this.”

“I know,” she replied, “someone else ordered it for you.”

“Who?”

Raven shrugged, but the smirk on her lips told a different story. Instead of answering his actual question, she pointed out, “Indra said you’re not sitting in your usual chair.”

His eyes flickered to where Indra was punching an order on the register. He replied, “I needed a slight change of scenery to get out of a rut I was in for my work.”

“She also said you’d say that.”

Drawing his eyes back to Raven, he frowned a bit, feeling guilty. Indra always read through his bullshit and it seemed she was training Raven in that area. Changing subjects, he asked, “That last song she sang, what song was it?”

Raven seemed to like the topic change as her eyes lit up and she bounced on her toes. “It’s an original,” she answered. “She was really nervous to perform it but I told her to do it anyways. It’s _so_ good, isn’t it?”

An original? Why wasn’t he surprised? A masterpiece coming from a work of art herself? He should’ve known.

He nodded and asked, “What’s the name of it?”

Raven opened her mouth to respond but Indra’s voice came out first, ordering her back to the work station as a flood of customers came in. She grinned apologetically and just told him before running off, “The answer is in the coffee.”

Not knowing what the hell she meant, Marcus watched after her with a confused look. ‘The answer is in the coffee’? What was that supposed to mean? Was it named after a certain type of coffee? An ingredient?

Grabbing his cup, he saw a music note drawn where the name slot was. Intrigued, he rotated the cup until all the sharpie was in view. Indra and Raven had always written on his cup when they felt like messing with him and they weren’t busy. A few of the nicknames they had given him were “The Hair” for his long locks, “Salt and Pepper” for his beard, and “Chancellor” for a character from his famous book.

The handwriting on this cup was different though. He recognized it was neither Indra’s nor Raven’s while also not being able to identify whose exactly it was. Someone had written “Let’s Call It Hope” with a music note on each side.

Alarms went off in his head as it snapped up just in time to see the musician slipping out the door. He kept his gaze on the door for a while after she disappeared, connections being created in his mind. The lyrics from the song drifted back into his mind and it clicked. He smiled to himself. It was a fitting song title for such a song.

As he took a sip of his new coffee, his eyes returned to the email from his publisher. They drifted to the final line stating they needed a title for the work. Glancing at the stage and then his coffee cup, his grin grew more. Hitting reply on the email, Marcus informed his publisher of the title for his work.

+

He was the first thing she noticed when she walked into Arkadia Café every day.

He had this aura surrounding him that drew her in the moment she first saw him. It radiated power but at the same time it was friendly. The combination made her intrigued, causing her to study him more.

She began to notice the way his hair fall just above his shoulders and curled slightly at the ends. When she performed and her eyes fell on him, she was always drawn to the lone curl resting against his forehead. Her eyes liked to betray her and scan over his arms, taking into account how muscular they were as his pen moved across his journal. She would imagine herself playing guitar while in his arms, making her feel at home in the café.

But her favorite thing to recognize about him was when she would notice him notice her. She saw how his eyes flickered to her every time her voice got a little rougher. She noticed he switched from his initial seat to sit in a more direct view of the stage days ago. She could feel his eyes on her every time she adjusted her stage before each song.

His initial reaction to her voice was something that never failed to make her smile. Seeing him pause over his computer, confusion in a euphoric state overcoming his features as he turned his head to the intruding sound—her voice. Then when he realized what it was, she relished in watching him melt all because of her voice.

She had heard many times from people that they thought her voice was sweet with an unexpected, but not unwelcomed, sour twist at times. Her late grandfather used to describe her voice as honey with a kick—a kick that could burn the poor soul eating it without warning while leaving them wanting more, no matter how painful.

When Raven had told her there was an opening to perform at Arkadia Café, she almost refused. Singing and playing guitar was something she reserved for herself, her family, and close friends. She did it publicly when she was young for fun, but she never wanted it to become a job when she got older. When she did grow older, she used to lay in bed, strumming lazy notes with her eyes closed as an escape from the rough nights in the ER.

Raven pulled her IOU when she had brought her a couple dozen, last-minute ordered scones for an office party she had forgotten about. Indra wasn’t happy with the timing but the money offer and pleading with promises of an IOU were too good to pass up. More than she would like it admit, she was glad Raven played it now. 

It was around that time of year that passes her grandfather’s death anniversary. No matter how long ago it was, it never got easier. Especially, since the guitar she plays with was the one he gifted her for her 18th birthday.

It didn’t matter how damaged it got, she would rather pay to repair it endlessly than own any other guitar. The sentiment held more value than any fancy, expensive guitar could dream of. Even more so when she would look inside the guitar and read his note to her. It was simple but held a lot meaning: “Never let the world smooth you out. Love, grandpa”. Beside it was a simple drawing of a bee to resemble the sweet yet rough voice he loved.

She used his words in every situation, whether it be about the roughness in her voice or the tough nights in the ER. Whenever she would feel the world knocking her down, his words would flash in her mind and help her stand back up. And that’s when she would sing.

Having that guitar in her arms, closing off the world, getting lost in the notes, and singing her heart out—that was the best medicine she could ever receive. It was like having her grandfather beside her again. During this time of year, when everything reminded her of her grandfather, the guitar was her rock.

As she came to a close on the song she was performing, her eyes glanced down to her hands by the strings. Her grandfather had placed the note in a spot where she could spot it while performing. She had to tilt the guitar a certain angle to see it, but it was the perfect position. When she felt overwhelmed or nervous on stage, she could glance down and find solace.

As she finished reading the note, she strummed out the last note, ending the song. Setting her guitar to the side, it was officially the middle of her set, meaning she got a small break. Standing up to stretch her legs, she noticed Raven walking over with a large cup.

Raven handed it to her when she reached her, asking, “Are you going to sing your original again?”

The nerves she first got when playing her original song came back. It was an on-the-spot idea she had thrown out to Raven, and Raven being Raven wouldn’t let it go until she agreed to sing it.

“I don’t know,” she answered as she took the drink, “did people like it last time?”

“Like it?” Raven repeated her. “Are you kidding, they loved it! A lot of the regulars came up asking what the song was!”

Unconsciously, her eyes drifted to the author at his new usual spot. He was currently running his hand through his beard, eyes slanted as he read something on his laptop. She could tell he was frustrated, but it was less of what she recognized from her first sightings of him. She knew from the way he either ran his hands across his face, beard, or moved his fingers over the keys without contacting them, he was having trouble coming up with what to write.

She could tell when he had a good idea going versus a bad one. He could be writing fast for either but the way his eyes were shifting on the screen and the amount of times he picked his coffee up were the deciding factors. If his eyes slowly moved across the screen, he was critiquing every detail, meaning he didn’t trust his mind to flow out the right details. If they moved fast, he had many ideas stirring in his mind and all he was concerned about was getting them done and critiquing them later. And with his coffee, if he picked it up a lot, he was using those few seconds to gather the next thought to move on.

“Yes,” Raven shattered her trance, “he asked too.”

“He did?” That caught her off guard.

“Mhmmm,” Raven said. “He also liked it.”

Now _that_ caught her off guard. When she was singing her original for the first time, she found herself drifting from her grandfather’s note to the author. Towards the end of it, she found herself gazing straight at him, finding solace in watching his reaction. When she ended the song, she waited for a reaction, but he just kept staring back. She hadn’t been able to read his reaction since he had been so expressive with his other ones.

Smiling to herself, she took a sip of her hot chocolate. She reached into her bag to grab money to pay for it, but Raven stopped her. Confused, she was going to ask why she couldn’t pay, but Raven beat her by saying, “Someone already paid for it.”

Even more confused, she asked, “Who?”

A smirk she knew all too well grew on Raven’s lips, the familiar sarcasm coming out in her reply, “Someone is paying you back.” And before she could question Raven what the hell that meant, Raven turned and ran back to the kitchen.

Paying her back? For what? As her confusion continued to build, she turned the cup in her hand as she tried to crack the riddle. Her eyes settled on the name slot, where “honey that burns” was written. Immediately, her eyes froze on the phrase as a memory came rushing back.

_She was only 13 at the time. She was over her grandparents’ and her grandmother was playing the piano. Her grandparents watched and listened as she sang along to the piano. Soon, the song ended as the oven went off with the night’s dinner inside._

_Her grandmother left the two alone as she went to finish the preparations for dinner. Sitting there on the couch, her grandfather asked, “How’s that song coming along?”_

_Perking up at the mention of the first song she’s ever written, she sprung up and ran off to get the lyrics and music sheet. As she was still learning the guitar, she handed her grandfather the music sheet as he grabbed the guitar. She pointed out certain gap in the chords and told him, “There’s no music here, just my voice. You’ll see, it fits the lyrics and transition.”_

_He nodded as she pointed out another group of strings and told him, “These have to be struck roughly and violently at the beginning. They can cool down a bit after but it needs to keep the rough edge throughout until here.”_

_Her grandfather nodded and didn’t say anything as he set the music sheet on his lap and got the guitar into position. They locked eyes and nodded together before he struck the first chord. Waiting for her cue, she eagerly bounced back on her heels. When the beginning note of her lyrics came, she began singing, immediately drawing her grandfather’s eyes to her._

_She sang as he strummed the guitar, hitting and stopping the chords as she requested. When the song came to a close, she waited for her grandfather’s reaction. When he played the last few chords, his eyes were going back and forth between her and the music sheet._

_Her heart was beating her in her chest as she waited for him to speak. When he spoke, he said one word, “Honey.”_

_She drew her eyebrows together in confusion at the time same her grandmother came into the living room, asking, “Yes?”_

_Her grandfather didn’t answer her as he stroked his chin. He was silent, confusing the two girls, before adding on, “But with a kick.”_

_Realizing he was talking about something other than calling her, the grandmother left to attend to dinner again. Watching her grandmother leave and then turning her attention to her grandfather, she asked, “Honey? With a kick?”_

_He turned towards his granddaughter, nodding. He patted the seat by him and she came and sat by him. He told her, “Your voice.”_

_“My voice?”_

_He nodded again as he grabbed the music sheet. He pointed at the part where there were no chords being played. He said, “When you told me to not play so it’d only be your voice, it was like honey. Smooth, sweet, and lingering after each note.” He moved his finger to the part where he struck the chords roughly. “But here,” he continued, “your voice gets rough…like something burned it.”_

_Setting the music sheet down, he concluded, “Your voice is like honey but with a kick.”_

_She let his words replay in her mind as her own voice rang in her ears. She could tell where he was coming from, even if it was a compliment she had never heard of before. She asked, “That’s a good thing, right?”_

_He smiled and nodded and then paused for a moment in thought. He said, “It’s a kick that could burn the pour soul eating the honey without warning. But then the burn would leave them wanting more, no matter how painful.”_

_She thought it over. A voice that offered comfort, then inflicted pain, but then offered the only soothing cure for it? It seemed like a compliment to her._

_“Is your grandfather spitting his poetry at you again?”_

_The two on the couch looked to the grandmother who had entered the entrance between the living room and kitchen. Her grandfather smiled and waved her off saying, “Musicians are talking.”_

_The grandmother laughed as she finished wiping her hands on the towel she held. She replied, “I think your grandfather forgets who taught him guitar sometimes. Dinner’s ready.” With that, she walked back into the kitchen._

_Her grandfather shook his head as she laughed. He said, “Your grandmother was never swayed by my poetry. It was only my lyrics that got to her.”_

_As he stood up, he set the guitar and music sheet to the side. Offering his hand to his granddaughter, he told her, “Some day, someone else will recognize the effect your voice has. And when they do, don’t let them get away.”_

Coming back to reality, she continued to stare at the phrase scribbled under the name slot. The memory stayed a float around like background music as her mind focused on her grandfather’s words.

_Some day, someone else will recognize the effect your voice has._

She immediately looked up from the phrase and to where the author sat. His fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard and his eyes moved just as quickly across the screen. The lone curl on his forehead was swaying with the movement of his head as he scanned the screen. As if on command, his eyes suddenly shot up above the screen and made eye contact with her.

_And when they do, don’t let them get away._

+

He did it.

He finished it.

As his eyes reread the last line he wrote for the tenth time, he spoke aloud to himself, “It’s done.” That was also the tenth time he’s said it, and the man at the table next to him was staring at him again. Offering him a smile and a little wave, Marcus sat back as he let out a deep breath.

It was _finished_. He wasn’t sure how he did it, but he did it.

He took the last few days since his publisher approved his title to really work on getting the ending he and his publisher wanted. Like he expected, it was tough writing in what his publisher wanted. He wrote one ending where the two never met but where the regular coffee goer continued to watch and go out of his way to see the musician at every musical set she had. He didn’t like it.

He tried writing one where the two actually met and Marcus expanded on where their lives went from there in a flash-forward scene. He didn’t like it. He felt it was a rushed ending and suddenly threw in so much detail as if to make up for the lack of interaction beforehand, which was the opposite of what the original writing style was supposed to portray.

After deleting those horrendous endings, he took a day off writing to let his mind actually have a break from typing and to organically think of one. The only writing material he had with him was his journal in case he came up with an ending. He got his usual order and sat at his new usual seat in Arkadia Café and watched all the live music for the day. When the mysterious musician was up, he made sure to not analyze her movements but just act like a normal viewer.

He let his eyes wander across the set, her, the audience, and the outdoors as her voice filled his ears. He closed his eyes at one point and let her songs paint a movie in his mind. It was relaxing, and it was what he needed.

Much to his liking, she played her original song again and he kept his eyes closed for it. He wanted to let his imagination flow free and let her voice and lyrics paint a story for him instead of trying to make one himself for once. As she sang the lyrics out and the chords of the song played out, he saw what he could only describe as a beautiful moment play out in his mind.

In his mind, he saw someone get knocked down over and over again. Sometimes they stayed on the ground and sometimes they stood up to be knocked down again. As the part of the song where she only sang with no music, the person on the floor was looking around. Towards the end of that part of the song, another person showed up and offered them a hand. As her voice faded and there was a slight pause with no music or vocals, the person on the ground looked at the offered hand and to who was offering it.

As they reached up to take the hand, there was still no noise from the musician. It wasn’t until the hand grabbed the offered hand did she strike the chords roughly and begin singing again. As the musician sang out the last chorus, the person who was on the ground stood up with the help of the other person. When they were standing again, they kept their hand in the hand of the helper. As they stood there and stared at each other, the last few lyrics and notes of the song played out. When the ending strikes of the chords began to fade, the two smiled at each other and fizzled out into nothing as the song finished.

Opening his eyes, he directly made eye contact with the musician. Unlike last time, he had a reaction for her. He smiled genuinely and nodded to her. It was small, nothing like his exaggerated reactions when he first heard her, but it seemed to be enough for her. She smiled back and adjusted her guitar for the next song.

That’s when he knew. That was going to be the ending he wrote. It was simple, it satisfied both his publisher and himself, and it stayed true to the writing style of the story. Opening his journal, he wrote down what he saw from her song.

The ending? He had the two finally meet by accident. They were in the café they have seen each other at every day for a few weeks, and their orders got mixed up somehow in a lunch rush. Since they had bought the other their order at least once, when one noticed their drink was not their usual, they recognized it as the other’s. They were faced with the decision of either accepting the drink or meeting their mystery crush and getting their real drink. In the end, they decided to face their fear and go up to other. The story ends with the two greeting each other, leaving future events open with a sense of ambiguity but enough to tell the reader the two will definitely be seeing each other again.

It was perfect.

So, why was Marcus having a hard time sending the latest edition to his publisher? He struggled so much to write the idea when he first started, went through turmoil to find the perfect ending, and now that he’s done it, he can’t seem to complete the final step. _Why?_

His drifting eyes towards the stage where the same musician that had granted him so much trouble along the writing process but provided the perfect story at the same time gave him the answer. He knew sending in the final piece meant not having a reason to be at Arkadia Café anymore. That meant he wouldn’t be able to see her every day; he wouldn’t be able to hear her voice every day.

And he didn’t want to give that up.

How could he? Besides it being heavenly to listen to, it had his saved his story and made him a better writer. Now, if she had an album out, that would be a different story. Although, he knew her live performances would always outshine any studio version she released.

Looking back to the email he had all prepared for his publisher with the final draft attached, he spared another glance at the stage. She was wrapping up her final song for the day as he noticed the time. Forcing his eyes back to the email, he let himself zone out on her voice again. As he focused on her voice, he felt his hand move the mouse over the send button. As she sang out the last note, he hit send, sending the email to his publisher.

His heart skipped a bit as he realized what he did as the message, “Sent!” appeared across his screen. Soon after though, relief washed over him. It was done, it was finished. He could finally relax and not worry about writing for a few days. And who was he to say he still couldn’t visit the café and listen to her sing? He could do it like he did the other day and just sit back, relax, and get lost in her voice.

Making up his mind, he got up the same time she was finishing up tearing down her set. Happy, he reached the counter and told Indra, “The regular please.”

Indra reached one hand out as she punched it in. Trying to act nonchalant, he put the amount in her hand and stepped off to the side. Indra brought it back and was about to rip the receipt off, but she froze. She stayed paused for a second and didn’t move the hand that held the money. Her eye twitched before her head turned to face Marcus, who wore too innocent of a smile.

She narrowed her eyes and said, “Give me the nickel you shorted me.”

Surprised, his eyebrows shot up. He asked, “How do you know it’s a nickel?”

She answered, “I told you I knew the moment you’d short me a penny, a nickel is no different.”

Laughing, he slid the nickel he held back over to her. As she picked it up, the musician walked up to order next. As Indra put the change away, she muttered under her breath about sabotaging his next signing at the store. Marcus chuckled as Raven took the order cup from Indra.

As Indra took the musician’s order, Marcus tried to watch from the corner of his eyes. He noticed she was wearing a black sweater very similar to first black turtleneck he saw her in the first day she was here. Her hair was a bit longer than he first saw her but still laid just below her shoulders and curled slightly at the ends to not lay completely flat. It framed her face perfectly, especially when she laughed at something Indra said.

As Indra slapped the receipt on the cup, she eyed Marcus. He raised an eyebrow back at her as Raven set his coffee in front of him. Grabbing it, he watched Indra hand Raven the cup and tell her something. Raven nodded and looked back at the musician as she walked over to the hot chocolate machine.

Marcus stepped a bit further off the side as the musician came over to stand by him in the waiting area. He took another sip of his coffee as he glanced over to her again. He noticed how short she was compared to him. He could never tell from the stage or from watching her order from afar, but up close, there was a good amount of height difference between them.

As Raven came over with her drink and handed it to her, she then proceeded to get each a scone from the pastry display. Putting them in their respective bags, she handed each their own from their order. Grabbing his, he glanced at the musician before walking off behind her back to his table.

Sitting down, he realized he had an email back from his publisher. He shifted to be seated in his sit nicely and the glare from the sun shined in his eyes. He swore as he tilted the screen away from him, rubbing his eyes. He set the scone down beside him as he drank from his coffee and clicked on the email.

As he waited for it to load, he watched as the musician collected the last of her belongings into her bag and prepared to leave. He took another drink of his coffee as he looked to the now open email. Quickly reading it over, he smiled to himself. His grin got wider with each word, his heart beating faster. When he finished reading it, he was full on grinning.

His publisher loved the ending and had approved it for editing.

Marcus let out both a relieved and happy sigh. He knew he said it a million times already and the man from before was still seated beside him, but he said aloud to himself once more, “It’s done.” Ignoring the look from the man, Marcus set his coffee down and grabbed his bag from his old usual chair. Reaching inside, he pulled his journal out.

Opening to the first page he wrote about the musician, he smiled at the words, “honey that burns” one more time. Haunting words at first, but now a lifesaver. It really offered him comfort at first, turned into an issue, but then became its own remedy—it stayed true to its meaning.

Shutting the journal and putting it back in his bag, he slung it over the chair he was in. Picking up the bag his scone was in, he unwrapped it and took a bite into.

He immediately froze up—it wasn’t blueberry.

Taking the bite into his mouth, he stared down at the scone in his hand, ignoring the glare from the sun off his laptop screen. As the filling spilled out onto his tongue and melted into his taste buds, he realized it was chocolate. Chocolate? He’s never ordered chocolate before, how did Raven mistakenly give him that?

As questions raced through his mind, a shadow fell across his laptop screen, eliminating the glare. Switching his gaze from the scone to the newcomer, he froze again when he realized it was the musician. Her guitar bag was slung over one shoulder while her other bag was strapped across her back. She had her drink in one hand and a bag containing the scone she received in the other. Setting her drink down, she unwrapped the scone to reveal a blueberry one. She asked, “Is this yours?”

Oh shit.

He was getting a sense of déjà vu. He looked to blueberry scone in her hand, the chocolate one he bit into, and then his eyes trailed over to the counter where Indra and Raven were watching the two. Smirking, Indra held up the nickel he had tried to short-change her with earlier as Raven laughed.

Noticing where his gaze went, she followed his gaze. She shook her head with a small smile. Deciding to play along, she pulled his old usual chair out after setting the scone down on the bag, immediately drawing his attention back to her. She took her bags off and set them across the chair and on the floor, feeling his eyes follow her every move. She sat in the chair, offering him a smile, saying, “I’m Abby Griffin.”

Marcus focused his attention on her, putting his bitten scone down on his own bag as he swallowed the bite he took. As he shifted in his seat to be facing her fully, he glanced down at his laptop. He winced at the glare he caught from his shift in position, swearing under his breath, and he didn’t miss the tiny smile it created on her lips. He put his hand on the screen to close it, and as he did, he caught a glimpse of the end of his newly finished story.

Oh yeah, a _real_ sense of déjà vu.

He shut it, smiling back to her, saying, “I’m Marcus Kane."


End file.
